


beneath my feet

by nightrose



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Boot Worship, Caning, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, M/M, Service Submission, Verbal Humiliation, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:28:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23164012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightrose/pseuds/nightrose
Summary: grantaire makes amends for his failures at the barrière du maine.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 113





	beneath my feet

**Author's Note:**

> this is a super intense scene, and there are some ways in which it is kink-as-therapy which is probably not good in real life, but it is consensual and both people enjoy themselves thoroughly. 
> 
> also it features heavy painplay and extreme humiliation, and some deliberate mind games as a way to construct a (previously articulated) fantasy, so be aware of those things?
> 
> don't hesitate to comment if you have questions about any of these warnings/specific triggers you're trying to avoid and i can let you know in more detail what's in the fic.
> 
> all feedback is highly appreciated! i'm quarantined in my apartment so i'm starved for Interaction lol

He just can’t stop thinking about it.

I want you to punish me. I want you to let me redeem myself. Let me show you that I am good for something, after all.

It had been a mistake—Enjolras’ mistake—to let Grantaire get involved in this at all. They were at a very delicate phase of the plan, and Grantaire is not known for his delicacy. Or his focus. Or his follow-through. But he was devoted to Enjolras, and brilliant, and things had been going so well between the two of them. He shouldn’t have crossed the streams.

He’s even more hesitant to pull in yet another thread here: the cause, their relationship, and now their kink life. But he can’t stop thinking about it. 

He wants it, not because he’s mad at Grantaire still. He really isn’t. Maybe a little bit angry at himself, for letting things come to this. They’d fought, and then made up, but Grantaire had still seemed… quiet. More reserved than usual. That’s when he’d said the thing that is now essentially haunting Enjolras. 

He actually sort of wants it for the opposite reason—because he wants to show Grantaire the kind of care and attention his boyfriend only seems able to accept in a scene. He could plan something special, maybe make one fo the fantasies Grantaire has entrusted him with come true. 

Also, it would be so, so hot.

That’s the other big thing. Like, really super hot. The idea of making Grantaire work for his forgiveness, of debasing him like that… Enjolras swallows hard. 

And he goes to find his boyfriend, who is sitting at their kitchen table. Grantaire is nursing a mug of black coffee and looking out into the distance. He barely glances at Enjolras as he enters the room. 

“Hey, love.” He crosses the room to kiss his boyfriend atop his curly hair. 

“Sorry,” Grantaire says, still not looking at him. 

“Look, I’ve been thinking about what you asked yesterday.”

Grantaire’s eyes snap up to meet his at once, sparkling with something Enjolras can only describe as hope. “And?”

“And… yes. As long as you know that I’m not actually upset with you, we can do it.”

“Really?”

Grantaire’s tone, so bright, chases away any lingering hesitation Enjolras might have felt. “Yes, really.” 

“Now?”

Enjolras laughs gently. “Give me a little time to get ready. Tonight, though, I promise.”

Grantaire turns his face up, catching Enjolras’ lips in a kiss. He looks at his boyfriend steadily, his dark eyes full of unspoken emotion. “Thank you,” he says, seriously.

“I love you, R. I want to take care of you. Whatever that looks like. I want…” He stops, looking for words. Unlike Grantaire, he’s not good at talking about what he’s feeling. He hasn’t had that long to get in the habit. “I want it to be okay for us to make mistakes, and still be all right.”

“You’re too good to me.”

Enjolras wants to argue with that, but he knows better than to push his luck that far. “You won’t be saying that when I’m through with you tonight,” he says instead, and Grantaire beams at him.

Grantaire goes off to work, which gives Enjolras ample time to plan

He has a rough sketch for the scene in mind already, but one of the details, he isn’t quite sure how to execute on his own. 

He figures the best way to make this work well for Grantaire is to give him something he really, really wants from the scene. That way, even if they’re playing at punishment, Grantaire will still know that Enjolras is doing this for him, because he loves him and wants to make him happy.

Or maybe that’s sort of an excuse, because Enjolras thinks the idea is pretty hot too. 

Anyway, Grantaire’s number one, rock solidest of kinks is boot worship. And he’s been pleading with Enjolras to let him actually worship his regular, occasionally untidy, walking-on-the-street boots, and not just the sterile pair they keep for this kind of play. The idea of Grantaire literally licking the dirt from the soles of his shoes is very, very hot, and also probably not safe enough for Enjolras to be comfortable ever actually letting him do it. 

So he’s been coming up with this plan for a while. It’s objectively crazy, given that he’s talking about a few hours of prep work for a sex thing, but he thinks it will create the illusion successfully enough for Grantaire. 

The boots are already pretty broken in from the scenes they’ve done with them in the past, but he spends a little while stretching them by hand, and even scuffs up the heels and toes a bit with some sandpaper, so that they’ll look just like the ones he walks in every day. He checks carefully against that model as he works, since he’s pretty sure Grantaire has an extremely accurate idea of what every pair of shoes Enjolras owns looks like. 

Then comes the truly ridiculous part. 

He’s not going to let Grantaire actually lick mud off his shoes, but he also really, really wants to watch Grantaire lick mud off his shoes. 

He spends some time trying to solve this problem on his own, and then gives up and calls the person he thinks is likeliest to be able to help. Cosette is, after all, a professional cake decorator, and she can make anything edible. “How would you make something that looked like mud or dirt, but was safe to eat? And ideally tasted sort of, bland, I guess?”

He hears Cosette’s smile through the phone. “Hello to you too. Is this a sex thing?”

“Maybe.”

“You’ll have to tell me what you’re using it for. Anyway, I would usually use crushed Oreos, but that will obviously taste like, well, crushed Oreos. You might try a mix of flour, food coloring, and water. Microwave the flour for one minute first to kill any bacteria that might be in. Then add one drop each of red, blue, and yellow food coloring until you have your desired color, and mix in water until you have the right texture.”

“Wait, wait. Let me write this down.”

Enjolras is fairly useless in the kitchen, but about an hour of experimenting, and several ruined cups of flour, eventually gets him a small bowl full of something that looks very much like dirt. He carefully paints it onto the boots with a pastry brush, and is pleased to see that it hardens on realistically. 

Pleased with the piece de resistance, he sets up for the rest of the scene. He clears everything off their living room table and lays out a flogger, a whip, a cane, and several lengths of bright-red rope. He puts on his tightest pair of jeans, a white button up, and his red leather jacket, and then the boots. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he decides that he should go for the black leather gloves as well. They’re excellent for creating that sense of dehumanization that he’s going for in this scene—like Grantaire doesn’t even deserve the touch of his hands. And he knows his boyfriend has a little bit of a kink for the way they look on his hands. 

And then he waits for Grantaire to get back. 

It isn’t a long wait. He guesses Grantaire probably begged off work early, as eager for this as he is. Grantaire is humming along to the song on his phone as he opens the door, a totally normal scene. 

And then he sees Enjolras standing there, dressed as he is, a cane in his hand. He swallows so hard that Enjolras can see it even across the room. 

“Get naked and get on your knees,” Enjolras says, and watches with pleasure as Grantaire scrambles to obey, getting himself a little tied up in the strap of his bag as he rushes into the position where Enjolras ordered him. But he’s hanging his head down low, and that won’t do. Enjolras crosses over to him, grabs him by the chin, and forces his head up. “We need to talk about your behavior.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me what happened yesterday.”

“I’m sorry. I got distracted, I—“

Enjolras slaps him hard across the face, and listens to the satisfying gasp he gives. The blow leaves a slight, visible red mark on Grantaire’s cheek. Grantaire loves being slapped, especially as an interruption, a chastisement. He’s spoken eloquently on many occasions about the humiliation and pain and what the two put together does to him. The impact of the leather glove across his cheek makes it hurt more, makes it better. “I don’t want to hear excuses. I want you to tell me what happened the other day.” 

“I. Um. I asked you if I could do something to help with the protest you’re planning.” The words are clearly coming out only with difficulty. “You said you didn’t think that I should. That it was a bad idea. Obviously you knew I couldn’t do it. But I insisted, and you gave me a chance.” Grantaire starts to squirm a little bit, visibly uncomfortable, so Enjolras grabs his hair, hard, and pulls his head back. He traces the edge of the cane up Grantaire’s stomach, to his throat, and then finally presses the length of it hard beneath his jaw. He pushes it in, hard enough that he knows it’ll make Grantaire feel like he’s being choked, without any actual risk. 

“That’s enough commentary. Tell me what happened.”

“You said I could go to the Barrière du Maine and talk to some people there. See if I could get them to agree to come out. I said I’d do it. But I froze. I panicked, I… I couldn’t. I didn’t even go. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Enjolras watches to see how this line will land. “I shouldn’t have let you do it. It’s not exactly what you’re for, is it?”

Grantaire shivers. With pleasure, Enjolras thinks. “No, sir.”

“I think you’re much better off where you belong. Right here. On your knees for me. I think I can find a use for you here.”

“Please…” Grantaire’s voice is raspy, already thick with desperation.

“Of course, first I have to punish you. Up.” He tugs sharply at Grantaire’s hair, pulling him off his knees into a sort of awkward crouching walk. He marches Grantaire over to the table and pushes him over, letting him fall onto it. “Hold still.” 

He’s more efficient than artful as he binds Grantaire in place. A two-column tie goes between his wrists, another between his ankles. Then the two are connected beneath the table. It’s essentially a reverse hogtie, but with the surface underneath Grantaire to hold him up, rendering him more thoroughly immobilized. A set of looped knots over his shoulders mean he can’t even wriggle forward or backwards. Enjolras supposes he could just about lift his head—rope binding on the neck is too dangerous, especially given that he expects some heavy breathing to be involved—but other than that, he can’t move at all.

“This is where you ought to be,” he tells Grantaire as he works. “On your knees for me, all tied up and helpless. Isn’t it?”

“Yes. Please—“

When he’s done with the binding, he crouches down in front of Grantaire and takes his boyfriend’s face between both hands. He allows himself one gentle caress of Grantaire’s cheek with his gloved fingers, watching him shiver at the touch of the leather. He makes Grantaire look him in the eyes, and then says, seriously, “R, what do you say if you need me to stop?”

“Red.”

“And if you want a break?”

“Yellow.”

“Promise me that you’ll use your words if you need them. I don’t want to break the scene for you, but I can only do this if you promise you’ll stop me.” He’s probably breaking the scene more than Grantaire wants by checking in like this, but he’s not going to start beating down on him until he’s sure it’s safe to do so. 

Grantaire looks up at him through his long eyelashes and says, seriously, no hint of hesitation or haziness in his voice, “I promise. You can trust me.”

It’s supposed to be the other way around, for the most part, but he’s grateful for it nonetheless. “Thank you.” He can’t resist the urge to press a kiss to Grantaire’s forehead. “You know I love you, right?”

“Did you just tie me up so you could say nice things to me?”

“No, I would have gagged you if that was the point. Then you wouldn’t be talking back right now.”

Grantaire rocks forward minutely, and Enjolras realizes he’s trying to shrug, but can’t, tied up as he is. “Love me, love my backtalk.”

And he does. But it’s not what he needs right now. He lets go of Grantaire’s hair, and his head lolls downward. “This doesn’t seem like quite the right attitude for you to be taking when I have you tied up and waiting to be beaten.”

“Right. Sorry.” 

“Tell me why you’re here.” He had to check in, but now he needs to help Grantaire back down. 

“I’m… I’m being punished. I messed up, but you’re going to give me a chance to do better.” That makes Grantaire shiver visibly, which brings a smile to Enjolras’ face.

“Very well said. But before you get your chance, you need to earn it.” Enjolras had brought the flogger out planning to warm Grantaire up before he started in with the harsher implements, but he’s mentally revising that plan now. Grantaire’s in an easier, more playful mood than he had anticipated. He might be able to drop into the scene more readily if Enjolras is harder on him. 

He’s been teasing Grantaire with the cane for a while, but he gets a gratifying gasp when he actually brings it down, hard, on Grantaire’s bare ass. 

Again and again, he measures the length of the smooth rattan against Grantaire’s skin, and then lays it into him. He watches in fascinated arousal as the cane dents his skin, leaving behind perfectly even marks. 

He starts with Grantaire’s ass, just because he can’t resist the pleasure of marking him up there, the beautiful curve of muscle and flesh. He leaves a dozen even stripes from the lowest curve of his ass to just below the dimples on his lower back. 

As he works, he watches Grantaire’s reactions. This position doesn’t allow him to see his boyfriend’s face, but Grantaire is relaxed in his bonds, tensing only when the blows hit, and his breathing is steady and even. 

Enjolras works down his thighs next, with hard, straight strokes that hit both legs at once. Grantaire cries out as he moves into this, more delicate, area, trying helplessly and instinctively to pull away.

Enjolras decides to be merciful and give him something else to focus on, even as he drops to one knee and starts caning Grantaire’s calves, down towards his sensitive feet. He knows this hurts more, much more, with less fat to cushion the blows, and Grantaire is breathing harder and sobbing a little on every stroke. Enjolras wonders if he’s crying already. But he knows that some meanness will help Grantaire drop into the place where the pain becomes pleasure, and that’s what he wants for him. “Listen to you whine.”

“S—sorry.”

“Do you want me to stop?” 

“No, sir, please.”

“Of course not.” Enjolras brings the cane down right across the arch of Grantaire’s feet, and Grantaire absolutely hollers. “Because you love this, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me.” He stands up and begins laying into Grantaire’s back, leaving short stripes on either side of his spine. 

“I love it when you do this to me. Sir, I need it. I need to be used like this. Hurt like this. I need to be put in my place…” That last word becomes a bitten-off hiss as the cane comes down on his ass again, viciously hard.

“Very well said. But a little too coherent for my liking. I think we’ll move on to the whip.”

He watches Grantaire tense up slightly at the words. He’s right in thinking that he’s not fully in subspace, then—if he were, he wouldn’t hesitate at the thought of more pain. But he’s getting there. He grabs Grantaire’s hair again, circling around him so he can look him in the eye.

“What do you say, slut?” He doesn’t usually resort to name-calling—there are more creative ways to humiliate Grantaire—but he can’t deny that it’s effective.

“Th—thank you, s—sir,” Grantaire stammers, his voice drifty. “Sir, please—“

“Please what?”

“Punish me. Please. However you see fit.”

“Better.” He lets the cane clatter to the floor so that Grantaire hears it, savoring his flinch at the sound. Then, after a moment’s deliberation, he picks up the flogger and begins warming up Grantaire’s back. It has to hurt, over the deep welts that the cane made, but he knows it’s also a more thudding, spread-out kind of pain that feels good to Grantaire, unlike the vicious sting of the whip. 

Grantaire groans in a mix of relief and pleasure. “Thank you, sir—“

Enjolras brings the flogger down across Grantaire’s back, hard enough that it lets out a wickedly loud crack. “Shut up.”

Grantaire confines himself to moans after that. It’s still not quite silence, but Enjolras doesn’t really want him to be quiet, either. 

He spends about five minutes flogging Grantaire, until there’s a deep, even red across his whole back, ass, and thighs. He doesn’t go too hard, just steady, even strokes of the flogger. Grantaire’s breathing is ragged, but he’s not flinching away from the flogger the way he’d tried to do with the cane, and his breathing starts to ease as the flogger continues landing on him.

Grantaire has gone from panting to slow, calm breaths, and this time, when he circles around to check in on him, his eyes are glassy and his lips are bitten red and shiny with spit. 

“Color,” Enjolras demands, because he can’t think of anything more clever to say and he needs to make sure Grantaire is with him enough to speak.

It takes a moment, but then Grantaire’s voice comes, as if from miles away. “Green, sir.” 

“Good.” He sets the flogger aside and picks up the whip. It’s a ferocious thing, a three-foot length of thick, braided leather with a silver cap at the end. It’s definitely the single most painful implement that he owns, and he tends to take it out only when they’re doing this kind of intense play. “Now, I think you’re ready for your real punishment.”

“That wasn’t…”

“That was just me having some fun.” And warming him up, but he doesn’t need to add that. The fantasy is that this is all for Enjolras’ pleasure, although the opposite is probably closer to true. “I think you deserve twenty lashes.” It’s a lot—more than he’s taken before, but not much more, and he’s starting out deep in subspace, and Enjolras wants to get him so much further. Besides, he can always cheat and skip a few. It’s not like Grantaire is capable of counting right now unless he’s ordered to. “But you don’t have to do anything except lie there and take your punishment, okay?”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you.”

And Enjolras gets that that’s more than thanks for not making him count or ask for it or any of his other tricks. It’s gratitude that Enjolras has gotten him to this place, to where he needs to be, and is going to take him even further. 

Then the first blow lands across Grantaire’s back, and Grantaire screams. Enjolras gives him a minute to feel it, watching as the welt opens up where the whip had struck him. Over the reddened skin and the deep bruises left by the cane, there’s now a thin, dark red line, touched at the end with blood. 

“Look at you,” Enjolras coos, striking again, a little harder this time. “Oh, right. You can’t.” 

The third lash goes across Grantaire’s ass, as does the fourth, making a perfect red X across his cheeks. He crosses them both with a fifth strike. Enjolras allows himself a moment of regret that this scene doesn’t include a chance for him to fuck Grantaire while he squeezes those marks, but he can always do so tomorrow, when they’ll have really settled into bruises. 

“Because you’re all tied up, aren’t you? Desperate and helpless while I whip you bloody. Right where you deserve to be.”

Grantaire’s scream turns into a moan at the words. This is one of the reasons Enjolras loves the whip—in addition to the serious pain he can inflict and the gorgeous marks it leaves on Grantaire’s lovely skin, it also doesn’t require the precision of the cane or the force of the flogger. He can stand back and just lazily flick his wrist and still make Grantaire cry, which lets him focus on other things. 

Like talking to Grantaire, and watching the way he reacts. He moves up to Grantaire’s shoulders now, striping them carefully. It’s not possible to hit with a flogger or cane here, because of the risk to the bones, but a whip only tears the skin. “You let me put you here. You begged me to put you here. And that’s because we both know that you deserve to be treated like this, isn’t it?”

Grantaire just whimpers in response, now completely incoherent. Enjolras lashes him across his whole back, mentally marking off the tenth strike. 

“Isn’t it?” he repeats, his voice harsh. 

“Sorry, sir, I’m sorry,” Grantaire is babbling, and Enjolras knows perfectly well that he didn’t hear a word of what he’d just said. 

“Look what this does to you.” Eleven now, making his way down Grantaire’s bruised and welted thighs. “All I’ve done is tie you down and hurt you, but you’re desperate from it. Because this is where you belong, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” Grantaire agrees, and Enjolras has no idea if he knows what he’s agreeing to or not. He can hear tears in Grantaire’s voice, and his back, ass, and thighs are a wreck. 

That’s enough pain, then. He’s got Grantaire right where he wants him, trembling and desperate. 

Now it’s time for the real showcase of the scene.

He circles around Grantaire again, tilting his chin upward so Grantaire has to look at him. He’s dropping his gaze instinctively, his eyes clouded with tears. He looks destroyed, tear tracks down his cheeks, his lower lip bitten raw. “You’ve taken your punishment well,” he tells him. “Now let’s see how you can be of use to me.”

“Please. Anything.”

If Grantaire is trying to anticipate what’s next—which he very well may not be, given the state that he’s in—he almost certainly thinks Enjolras is about to fuck him. Which is sort of how Enjolras wants it. And also his back up plan, if Grantaire decides that this next part is a bridge too far. He tries to have contingencies for things like this. “See, you can be good. As long as I keep you like this. All sweet and submissive for me. I’m going to untie you now, but don’t you dare move.”

“Yes, sir.” Grantaire sounds slurred, drunk even, on sensation and whatever strange wonderful alchemy takes place in his mind when they do this. 

“Good.” He has to keep himself back from praising Grantaire more, since that’s deliberately not part of this scene. It isn’t easy. 

Instead, he focuses on undoing most of the knots. He keeps Grantaire’s wrists tied up, redoing the column so they’re held tightly behind his back, laced up to the elbow. Otherwise, he leaves him relatively free.

He has to bear most of Grantaire’s weight as he pulls him off all fours and onto his knees. He’s exhausted from the beating, his body trembling all over, and he can barely hold himself up when Enjolras steps back, away from him, and sits on the couch. He lets himself spread his own legs obscenely wide, not missing how Grantaire’s eyes momentarily dart up to the hard bulge of his erection. 

“Come here,” he says. “Crawl.”

Grantaire does just that. His movements are slow and tentative, and Enjolras can see that every one hurts him. But he doesn’t hesitate to follow his orders. 

“Isn’t this better?” he says, his voice somewhere between mocking and affectionate. “You’re right where you belong. Bound and beaten, on your knees in front of me.”

“Yes. Yes, please…”

“Of course, I’ve got to find some use for you while you’re here.”

“Anything.” Grantaire looks up at him, his eyes shining with devotion. “Anything, please, anything you want. I can be good. I need to be. Please.”

“Anything?” Enjolras spares him a glance, and Grantaire shudders a little under the intensity of his regard, but doesn’t hesitate.

“Yes, please.”

“What would you do for me?”

“Anything you want. Pain, or… or I could get you off, or… anything.” Grantaire loses a lot of his usual eloquence when he’s that far down.

“Oh?”

“Yes, sir, please, please—“ And he’s rocking forward on his knees now, tears leaking from his eyes in utter desperation. 

Enjolras takes a deep breath, and traces an almost-affectionate hand down Grantaire’s cheek. “I think I have something even you can be good for.”

“Please—“

“Clean my boots.”

Grantaire’s eyes drop to the floor—to Enjolras’ boots. Enjolras can see the thoughts moving across his face as he takes in the apparently filthy state of them, and realizes that Enjolras must mean for him to clean them in the only way that, with his hands tied, he possibly can.

But he only hesitates for a minute before dropping to the ground and licking a stripe across the toe of Enjolras’ left boot. 

Enjolras is always surprised by how keenly he can feel this. It’s like Grantaire’s mouth is on his cock, but better, because he’s also watching him press himself against the floor in eager willingness to humiliate himself for Enjolras’ pleasure. 

“Good,” he says, and Grantaire moans and sets to work properly. Enjolras had gotten the boots fairly filthy in anticipation of this, and it’s not easy to get the stuff off. Grantaire has to really work at it, sucking open-mouthed and working with his tongue. Enjolras’ boots are slick with spit from one end to the other by the time he deems them clean enough. 

Then he tilts one up. 

“The soles too, R.”

Grantaire doesn’t hesitate, just lowers himself further, licking obediently at the filth at the bottom of Enjolras’ shoes. 

“Fuck,” Enjolras says, before he can stop himself. Then he makes himself return to the script. “Fuck, you really are just a whore, aren’t you?”

Grantaire lets out a little whining moan, contorted by the fact that his mouth is pressed against the soles of Enjolras’ boots, and traces his tongue along one of the ridges there.

“No, less than that, even. If you were only a whore, you might let me fuck you, might let me hurt you, but you wouldn’t do this. I don’t even know what to call a degraded thing like you.”

The words seem to light Grantaire up, as Enjolras had hoped they would. His whole body is pressed to the floor, his cheek touching the ground. He’s literally under Enjolras’ feet, and the weight of that almost takes Enjolras’ breath out of his body. 

“Don’t you dare stop,” he warns, not that Grantaire had, but he applies himself to his work with renewed energy, his tongue now tracing up the side and heel of the boot. “This is all you’re good for, and you don’t want to be worthless, do you?”

Grantaire groans at that before he can stop himself. Part of Enjolras wants to throw himself to the ground beside Grantaire and kiss him senseless. Part of him wants to grind him down beneath his boots. All of him loves Grantaire more than he has words to express, and certainly more than he could say in words that Grantaire would be willing to listen to.

So instead he says what he knows Grantaire can bring himself to hear. “This is where I want you. On the ground, groveling for me. Showing me how desperate you are. How low you’re willing to go, because I want it. This is where you belong.” With me, Enjolras doesn’t add, because that would break the scene, but they both know it. 

His boot is growing shiny with spit now, and most of the fake mud has been cleared away. More importantly, Grantaire’s movements are growing sloppier and slower, a sure sign that he’s deep in subspace, right where Enjolras wants him to be. He takes that opportunity to kick Grantaire sharply with the other boot.

“Both sides now. Come on. I know you can at least do this properly.”

Grantaire lets out another desperate, helpless sound, and drags himself along the ground towards Enjolras’ other boot. He looks so beautiful like this, wearing nothing except the lashes Enjolras gave him.

“Kneel up for me for a moment,” Enjolras says, because he has to look at him. It’s a visible struggle for him to move. He must be hurting after the vicious beating he took, and he’s been crouched on the ground for long enough that his knees have got to be locking up. Enjolras knows that it’s almost time to bring the scene to an end. With Grantaire in this state, he’d be happy to fly this high forever, and has no real sense of time passing, so it’s Enjolras’ responsibility to see him through it, to bring him back down before he can come to any harm. 

He grabs Grantaire’s chin, roughly, between two gloved fingers, and forces him to look up. Grantaire can’t meet his eyes, but he gets enough of a look at his face to judge the state he’s in. His pupils are blown so wide that Enjolras can barely see a hint of hazel around them, and his lips are slick with spit and hanging slightly open as he breathes hard.

Enjolras slaps him hard. “You like this, don’t you?”

When Grantaire doesn’t answer—can’t answer, most likely—he slaps him again. Grantaire’s lips tremble, and then move. His voice sounds like it’s coming from miles away. “Yes, sir.”

“You like being treated the way you deserve? You like it when I hurt you? You like licking the filth off my boots?”

“Yes, sir.” Grantaire’s eyes are welling up with tears. 

“Spread your legs.”

Grantaire does at once, staying in his kneeling position but letting his knees spread apart so that Enjolras has a perfect view of his cock. Though Enjolras has been ignoring it completely, Grantaire’s cock is purple-red with arousal and steadily leaking a small trail of precome.

“I thought so. You’re getting off on this.”

“Yes, sir,” Grantaire repeats, shame and desire equally apparent in those two small words.

“You know that’s disgusting, don’t you?” He tries to keep his tone bored and distant, filled with the haughty superiority he knows Grantaire loves. It isn’t easy to pretend he’s unaffected by this. But he also enjoys playing this character, this version of himself that treats Grantaire as cruelly as he wants. 

Grantaire’s face is bright red now too, and he doesn’t answer, just tries to look down. Enjolras considers slapping him again, but creativity has value too. Instead, he presses his newly cleaned, spit-slick boot against Grantaire’s hard cock, putting just enough pressure on it that he knows Grantaire can feel the painful tug of the rubber on his sensitive skin.

“I expect you to answer me when I ask you a question.” He lets his grip on Grantaire’s chin tighten, too. “What are you?”

“Disgusting, sir.” His voice cracks, but he gets the words out. “Please—“

Enjolras grinds his foot down, hard enough that Grantaire sobs. He’s wide open like this, unable to censor any of his reactions. “Do you really think I’m going to let you come?”

Clearly, he doesn’t know how to answer that. Enjolras thinks about making him try to come up with something, but he decides to relent. 

“Do you deserve to come?”

“N-no, sir.” Grantaire is on slightly firmer territory here, clearly.

“That’s right. You’re lucky even let you lick my boots, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir, thank you—“ There are tears leaking from Grantaire’s eyes now, 

“That’s better.” Stroking one gloved finger across Grantaire’s flushed cheek, he lets go. “Now get your filth off my boot.”

Enjolras wishes he could see whether or not there actually is a streak of precome there, but it hardly matters, given the way Grantaire trembles and flushes at the words, dropping back down to lick at the sole of Enjolras’ boot again. 

Enjolras lets him work at it for a while, before nudging him back up to the other boot. He goes obediently at the slightest touch of Enjolras’ foot. It’s beautiful, the way he bends to his task. Grantaire is usually self-conscious about his body, enough so that Enjolras can’t nakedly watch him like this, but now there’s no touch of hesitation about it. He twists eagerly downward, tongue and lips tracing over the leather.

For a while, Enjolras is quiet, watching him work. He can practically hear Grantaire’s thoughts, the easy, calm state of his mind. He loves watching Grantaire suffer, but he loves this, this state of perfect bliss, even more. 

Grantaire licks at Enjolras’ boots until they’re shining, and then pulls back a little, pressing a kiss to the toe of each. Then he hesitates.

“Do you think you’re finished?”

“Yes, sir.” Grantaire’s voice is gravelly, and Enjolras knows it’s almost time to bring this scene to an end. He needs water and probably a snack and certainly some gentleness, after all this. He almost wishes they could keep going forever, but he’s also looking forward to the final moments he has planned.

“Let me see.” He pushes Grantaire back with one boot, making him kneel back on his heels so that Enjolras has room to stretch out his legs. He pretends to be contemplating his own boots for a while, just until Grantaire starts to fidget a little bit. “You did a tolerable job on these. I suppose you are good for something after all.”

Grantaire grins at that, his whole face lighting up, like Enjolras has just promised him the sun and the stars. Not that Enjolras wouldn’t, if he thought Grantaire would take it from him. “Thank you, sir.”

“I have to admit, watching you humiliate yourself like that had a certain appeal. I found myself thinking of all the other things I might do with you.”

“Anything,” Grantaire breathes.

“Oh, I know. Keep your eyes on me,” Enjolras says, and finally, finally undoes his jeans, letting his cock out. The relief is instantaneous, cool fresh air on his overheated flesh. 

Grantaire shuffles back towards him, as Enjolras had hoped he would. He backhands Grantaire hard enough that he falls to the ground, and gets to his own feet so that he’s looming over him. 

“Did you just try to touch me?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I just wanted—“

Enjolras puts one of his newly shiny boots to Grantaire’s bare chest, pressing him into the floor. Grantaire lets out a yelp—it must be agony on his welted back. “I know what you wanted, you desperate whore. You wanted to suck my cock, is that right?”

“Yes, sir, please—“

“You wanted me to make you choke on it, I bet. Slap you around if you didn’t do it well enough. Feed you my come.”

“Yes, please, please, I need it, please—“

Enjolras looks him right in the eye, and says, his voice low and clear, “I’m not going to let you put your filthy, disgusting mouth on me. You’re only good for licking my boots.”

Grantaire keens at those words, and Enjolras watches as the tears start to fall from his eyes. Enjolras starts stroking himself properly.

“I’ll just have to take care of this myself. I’ll only bother with you when I need something to hurt or humiliate. I just—fuck—“ Enjolras loses his composure momentarily as he comes. A little gets on Grantaire’s chest, but most of it lands right where he’d wanted it to, on the ground next to him. “But you’ve done well, as well as a worthless thing like you could ever be expected to do at anything. So I’ll give you a reward. You can clean it up.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire says, immediately contorting himself to reach the small pool of come on the ground. Enjolras doesn’t let up with the boot that’s on his chest, forcing him into an uncomfortable twist as he presses his face into the ground, obediently licking every drop of Enjolras’ come off the ground. “Thank you, sir.”

Enjolras lets them both breathe like that for one moment, then two, before gently lifting his foot off Grantaire’s chest. Grantaire takes in a shaky breath, but not a desperate one, which reassures Enjolras that he didn’t go too far with the breath restriction. Once he’s given Grantaire a moment to center himself, he drops to his knees next to him. “Hi, my love.”

“Sir, please…” Grantaire trails off, obviously not sure what he’s begging for. It doesn’t matter. Enjolras is going to give it to him anyway.

“Nod if it’s okay for me to touch you.”

Grantaire nods, and Enjolras quickly shucks off the leather gloves, tossing them aside, and takes Grantaire in his arms. He wants to give him skin-to-skin contact, both because that is proven to soothe him, and because he wants to break out of the roleplay that Grantaire doesn’t deserve his touch. He pulls him up and in close, holding Grantaire to his chest. Grantaire is limp for a moment, exhausted, but then curls his head against Enjolras’ shoulder.

Enjolras presses a gentle kiss to the top of his head. “I love you so much. You’re so perfect.”

Grantaire doesn’t say anything, just cries softly into Enjolras’ shoulder. They’ve done this enough times by now that Enjolras knows it’ll be a while before he’s really verbal. Eager as he is for reassurance that he hasn’t done anything wrong, as much as he wants to make sure that Grantaire is actually all right and unharmed by the intensity of the scene they’ve just done together, part of what he gives up in exchange for the power Grantaire trusts him with is the ability to know that right away. It would be selfish for him to push Grantaire into a debrief of the scene before he’s ready for it. Instead, he’ll have to live with his uncertainty for a few minutes.

It’s a small price to have access to this version of Grantaire, so open and trusting, so willing to accept whatever Enjolras gives him, be it pain or affection, tenderness or cruelty. “That was an incredible scene, ‘Aire. I can’t believe you let me take you there. I’m so lucky that you trust me like that. I love you.” He can never say it enough, and especially not in these moments.

He holds Grantaire until his tears stop, and he’s breathing a little bit steadier. 

“How are you feeling, my love?”

“So good, sir.” Grantaire’s voice is still floaty, as if the title weren’t enough to tell him that he’s still deep in subspace. 

“I want to start getting you cleaned up. Will you let me do that for you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.” Enjolras kisses his forehead. “Come on.” 

He has to help Grantaire to his feet—his legs are shaking pretty badly—and gets him sitting on the couch. There’s a pack of wet wipes and a bottle of water tucked away. He starts on the knots still tying Grantaire’s wrists together, and checks the marks carefully. There’s a small amount of indentation, but no rope burn, no abrasions, and no sign of any deeper damage. 

“Curl your hands into fists for me. Now touch your pinky to your thumb,” he instructs anyway, making sure Grantaire’s range of movement is normal. “Good boy. Drink some water.” He uncaps the bottle and presses it into Grantaire’s hands, while he goes to work on his back. He checks all the marks there carefully. 

He hadn’t broken the skin, even with the whip, which is good. As much as he enjoys the fantasy of beating Grantaire bloody, it’s not exactly a safe activity. Some of the welts are fairly deep, though. He cleans those off with the antiseptic wipe, and bandages a few that seem more obviously split. He also takes a moment to wipe the sweat, and a small amount of come, off Grantaire’s chest. 

“I’m going to make you come now, my love. Okay?”

“Okay, sir,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras is pretty sure he has no idea what he just agreed to, but that’s all right. Enjolras is going to take care of him. He carefully positions them so that Grantaire is pressed snugly against his chest, his head against Enjolras’ shoulder, and takes Grantaire’s cock into his hands. Even after all he’s been through, it’s as hard as Enjolras has ever seen it.

“I want you to come for me as soon as you can. You don’t have to hold back. You’ve been so good for me, you deserve this,” he murmurs into Grantaire’s ear, and it takes only a moment for Grantaire to sigh and release, his whole body going limp as he comes.

“Thank you, sir.” 

“Shh, now.” Enjolras wipes Grantaire’s cock clean too, and then gets a fresh, dry towel to clear some of the spit that’s started drying on his face, although getting him properly clean might take a shower. That can wait. 

“Thank you,” Grantaire repeats, shifting around so that he’s back in Enjolras’ arms. He hides his face in Enjolras’ shoulder again. It’s too soon after the scene for Enjolras to push him to make eye contact, so Enjolras just holds him close. 

Eventually, his breathing starts to pick back up to normal, and he stirs a little bit. At these signs, Enjolras kisses his forehead again. “Back with me, my love?”

“Mm. Sort of, sir.”

Still the title—which means that Grantaire is still in subspace. That’s all right. Enjolras is happy to take care of him there as long as he wants to stay floating. He’ll hold him like this forever, if that’s what Grantaire needs. “How are you feeling?”

“Really good. A little sore.”

“What’s sore?”

“It’s nothing, sir.”

Enjolras repeats, calmly, “I want you to tell me. Even if it’s nothing.”

“My knees. And my back hurts, obviously. And my jaw. Um. Sorry.”

Enjolras rewards him with a soft kiss. “Good boy. Let me take a look at those knees.” They seem fine, not bruised at all. “Here.” He encourages Grantaire to lean back against him again, so they’re lying on the couch with Grantaire’s back to Enjolras’ chest, and rubs at his jaw for a while until the tense muscles there start to release. 

Grantaire lets out a happy little sigh. “Thank you, sir. You’re too good to me.”

Well, he’s more coherent, at least—and more ridiculous. “R, I basically beat you senseless.”

“I know. I needed that.”

Enjolras lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. “I’m glad. You know I love you, right?”

“Of course. Especially when you’re mean to me like that. I can’t believe you did all that.”

“Anything for you.”

“I really thought ‘let me lick the mud off your boots’ was a fight I was never going to win.”

Enjolras laughs, and confesses, “It wasn’t actually mud. It was a dyed mix of some stuff, mostly pasteurized flour.”

Grantaire turns around slightly so that Enjolras can see his raised eyebrow. “And how long did it take you to cook that one up?”

“Uh, most of the morning,” he admits sheepishly. 

Grantaire grins, and kisses him. “You,” he proclaims, “Are a ridiculous man.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I know that too. Also, I love you.”

“Now, take me to bed, you silly person. I need a nap.”

“Do you want some chocolate first?” He should probably try to get Grantaire’s blood sugar back up.

“No, nap first. Then chocolate.”

“Your wish is my command.”

“You’ve changed your tune from all you’re good for is licking my boots,” Grantaire teases, and Enjolras smiles, a little hesitantly.

“You know—“

“Of course I know you don’t mean that stuff. I wouldn’t let you say it if you did,” Grantaire says, simply, and Enjolras sighs in relief.

“I know. I guess I was just worried that because this scene was kind of about… you know—“

“Something I actually fucked up in real life, that I thought you were taking out on me through sex? I know you wouldn’t do that, ange.”

“Oh.” Put like that, it’s easy to set his worries aside. “Right.”

“You are so sweet, but you don’t need to worry about me like this.”

“It’s my job to worry about you.” 

“It’s your job to spoon me. Come on.”

And, smiling all the way, Enjolras obeys.


End file.
